Life
by ReticentSurprise
Summary: Post-RENT: Mimi's getting worse, and Mark gets a job or two. Things don't improve. My first "chapter" piece, so it's probably scratchy. Chapter six up (finally), 01.04.05.
1. Another Empty Life

**Title**: Life

**Author**: ReticentSurprise

**Rating**: R for uber-angst, extra depression, and doing mean things to Mark & Co. (Incidentally, "R" for "ReticentSurprise" as well. Whee!)

**Pairing**: Roger/Mimi, Maureen/Joanne. Several years post-RENT. Sorry, no Mark/Roger.

**Disclaimer**: I have a playbill with their names in it! Does that make them mine?

**A/N**: This started out COMPLETELY different. Well. Okay, not completely. But I realized it wasn't going to go where I wanted it to go, and then I realized that was because I forgot to include a fairly essential element in pushing the plot that direction. So I have no idea where this is headed. Scary, ni? And regarding the chapter titles: I've never been a fan of using lyrics as titles, don't know why. But when I started titling the chapters, I started at 4 and worked my way backwards, and found myself using lyrics.

**Chapter One A/N**: Pretend you walked into the loft and found Mark's camera, sitting by itself. Pretend you pressed "REWIND," then "PLAY" when it reached the end. This is what you'd see. In this universe, at least.

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**Chapter One: Another Empty Life**

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"October 1st, 6 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Pan around the empty loft. A far cry from a few years ago. Benny's gone: Allison moved him to the west coast and we haven't heard from him since. Collins will wander in for a visit from time to time, but one person paying the rent on Angel's old apartment is cheaper than splitting the loft rent, so he lives there. Maureen's still with Joanne: when they're not at work, they're working on their relationship. They've already sent one psychiatrist into therapy.

"Mimi's getting sicker. Roger's taking care of her, but soon they won't be able to afford the rent down there. They'll move back up here when that happens, but they like the privacy of her place while they've got it. Not that I'm much of an intrusion. I try not to be, anyway.

"Zoom in on the fridge. Empty, like the loft. I sometimes wonder if I'm really living here."

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"October 8th, 8 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Another day, another dollar I wish I was being paid. Pawned the hotplate Mom sent a few Christmases ago that I've never used. Except that one time, trying to keep Mimi warm. That Christmas we almost lost her. Managed to buy enough food for the next month, at least. Glad I like store-brand cereal. Roger says he'll go busking with the accoustic tomorrow if I feel up to facing Mimi's PMS without male backup. I asked if he remembered how long I put up with Maureen.

"Mimi hates it up here, I can tell. She misses her apartment. I don't blame her: I hate it here too. The loft smells like -- shit, I can't even identify it any more. Years of Chinese food, pizza, cheap beer, love, cigarettes, death, drugs, sex, and blood have given the loft a distinctive odor, a life of its own. It's suffocating, suffocating me, killing me.

"Killing Mimi.

"I gotta get out of here."

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"October 11th, 3 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Pawned off another of Mom's Useless Gifts, this time a blender. What the hell do I need a blender for? Didn't buy food with it though. Didn't buy anything. I'm saving up for something, I just haven't found out what yet.

"It'll come to me. I can wait."

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"October 14th, 10 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Mimi was feeling great this morning, so we went with Roger busking. He played, Mimi danced, I kept an eye out for petty thieves and cops. Roger's busking license wouldn't cover Mimi, and we can't afford legal bills on top of hospital bills. Made pretty good money; split it five ways -- equally split between the three of us, AZT, and food. I guess they thought I'd buy film or something. I'm still saving up, though. I'm beginning to get an idea about what I'm saving for."

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"November 7th, 3 am, Eastern Standard Time. Mimi's in the hospital. Roger spends all his time there too. I spend all my time working. This is the first chance I've had to pick up my camera in at least three weeks -- I got a job at Life Cafe during the day, and at a bar at night. The bar's pretty sleazy, but we really need the money. Mimi was the only one of us to pull in steady money, and now Roger's not gigging or busking.

"I'm so tired. I don't know how Roger's keeping awake. I don't know how he's keeping it together, either. I think Mimi's giving him some of her strength, and I'm scared of what that implies.

"Joanne and Maureen keep dropping food off t the loft, but no one's home to eat it. I usually end up dropping it off for Collins, or the homeless shelter around the corner.

"I went to the airport last week. I've got enough in my stash for a one-way ticket to LA -- provided I don't intend to rent a car once I get there and I don't mind sleeping under a boardwalk. Hah. Can't you just see that? Mark Cohen, beach bum. Filming the teeny-boppers and suntanners by day and the whores and homeless at night. It has a certain disgusting appeal to it.

"Not that I could leave now. Not with Mimi like she is.

"But it's a thought."

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"Oh God. Oh God. I'm trying to . . . I'm calming down. I'm . . . just like I used to. Calm down, Mark, calm down. Okay.

"November 16th, 3 am, Eastern Standard Time. Just got back from . . . just got home -- oh, god, i'm going to be sick again --"

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"November 16th, 4 am, Eastern Standard Time. I think I'd be okay if I could just stop throwing up. And if I had the courage to call someone . . . "

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"November 16th, 7 am, Eastern Standard Time. Called in sick to Life today. Tony didn't believe me at first, but I was sick on the phone and he got worried. Said if he saw someone I knew he'd send them over. I don't know if I want them here or not.

"Oh, God . . . I gotta keep something down, or get to sleep, or something . . . anything . . . "

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"November 16th, 9 am, Eastern Standard Time. An hour ago I started coughing up, throwing up blood. I'm dizzy . . . can't get off the floor. I should call someone . . . call Collins . . Collins is at work . . . call Joanne -- at work . . . why? . . . who else? . . . god . . . "

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	2. You're Not Alone

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**Chapter Two A/N**: Perspective switch! Third person, focus on Collins. Pretty self-explanatory. Oh, and the OCs: I don't want them to be main characters, but I have to pull in other people. I'm trying to restrict myself to the number of swings and understudies in the cast, however, so there shouldn't be an over-abundance of them. And sorry this one is so horribly short.

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**Chapter Two: You're Not Alone**

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"Hey, you're Collins, right?"

Collins looked up at the manager. "May I help you?"

The young female-to-male crossdresser nodded and asked again. "You're Collins, right?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?" Collins tried to think if he'd . . . uh, _liberated_ anything from Life lately. Nope. Did he owe money? He didn't think so . . .

"Look, Mark Cohen called in sick to work today. I took the call myself: he's sick as a dog. I got a bad feeling, and I was just wondering if you could possibly just go over and check up on him, it'd put my mind right to ease."

"I'm sure his room-mate is taking care of him . . . " Collins started to say.

"Honey -- " Tony collapsed in the chair across from him and grabbed his hand. "If his room-mate were there, the room-mate would have called. He was that sick."

Collins frowned and thought a moment. Was Mimi to the point where Roger wouldn't even head home to help Mark? But if he didn't know Mark was sick . . .

Tony squeezed his hand. "Cohen's a good kid. He's been working himself to the ground these past couple weeks, so he may just be sick from that. But I've got a notion, and my notions aren't usually wrong."

"Fine." Collins sighed and pulled out his wallet. _What a way to start my Saturday. And I didn't even get to finish breakfast . . . _ Tony shook his head.

"Don't worry about that. If this thing with Cohen is just me being an idiot, well, you'll have a free breakfast for indulging a silly Southerner. If not, then it's the least I can do."

Collins nodded again and took off for the loft.

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"Mark!" He called up. "MARK!" He paused for a response -- nothing. "Shit. IS ANYONE IN THE BUILDING AT ALL?"

"What the fuck is going on?" A very sleepy woman on the first floor demanded, sticking her head out the window.

"My room-mate won't throw down the key." Collins flashed her his most charming smile. She groaned.

"Oh no. Not you again. I remember you. I thought you moved out."

"Only staying here a week, ma'am, I promise."

"Fine." She snapped, then vanished from her window. A minute or so later, the building's door opened.

"Thank you very much, ma'am." Collins hurried in and up the stairs. She snorted and went back to her apartment.

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By the time Collins had gotten to the building, Tony's worry had infected him. When he reached the door to the loft and found it unlocked, the worry grew into full-fledged concern -- and foreboding.

He gently pushed opened the door.

"Fuck," he said softly. He'd frozen in the doorway. "Fuck! Mark!"

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	3. Fear's My Life

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**Chapter Three A/N**: Chapter three, where we finally learn what happened to Mark! Well. Where you learn. I already know. And I feel horrible for doing it. But I did. Perspective switch again: third person, centered on Roger.

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**Chapter Three: Fear's My Life**

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Mimi was sleeping. Roger knew he probably should be too, he might not get a chance later. But he found himself just watching her sleep, watching the pain lines fade on her forehead.

A soft tap on the door brought him out of a gentle stupor. He turned to see Collins in the doorway.

"Hey." He whispered. Collins silently gestured for him to come out in the hallway. Roger nodded, kissed Mimi's hand, and left the room. "What's up?"

"Rog, Mark's in the hospital." Collins came right out with it. "I brought him here an hour ago, haven't seen him since they took him in."

"What happened?" Roger could feel himself becoming simultaneously furious and worried. _Mark's not sick. Why's he here?_

"I don't know. I walked in the door . . . God, Roger, at first I thought it was a repeat of the April incident. There was blood . . . he was passed out in the bathtub. I don't know if he's woken up yet." Collins's voice sounded wooden.

"Where -- " Roger cleared his throat and tried again. "Where is he?"

"Still in the ER. They wouldn't let me in -- not family. Just tell them you're his brother." Roger nodded and started towards the ER, then hesitated. "Don't worry. I'll look after Meems." Roger nodded again and left.

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"Can I help you, sir?" The girl at the counter gave him a brief smile.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mark Cohen. In the ER. I'm his -- " Roger almost said room-mate, bit it back, and said " -- brother."

"You sound a little uncertain of that." She remarked and clicked on her computer. She tapped away for a second as he tried to think of a reply. Then she flushed bright red. "Oh! I'm sorry, Mr -- Ms -- Cindy."

Roger grinned, not even pausing to wonder how they had a record of Mark's family. Sure, he could be a drag queen for a while. Bonus if it sullied Cindy Cohen's pristine name. Wouldn't that piss her off?

"Oh, honey, don't worry about it!" He tried his hand at gushing and noticed her discomfort. "When I heard what happened to Marky, I rushed on over here and didn't have time to put my glamour on. And heaven knows I can't wear my dress without my make-up!"

" . . . right . . . " She was still blushing furiously. "He's in Curtain 3. Go right over to that door and I'll have a nurse guide you in."

"Thank you, honey. You're a doll." He smiled at her sweetly and moved off. _If only Mark could have caught that on tape . . ._

Thinking of his friend brought him back from the frantic and detached area his mind had been occupying with the impromptu Angel impersonation. _Mark's in the hospital. Mark's sick . . . but NOT dying . . . and not suicidal . . . he's sick. He'll be okay. He's gonna be okay. Fuck, he's gotta be okay!_

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"Here." The curt nurse-bitch the receptionist had graced Roger with opened a curtain the smallest bit. "You can stay as long as he's in ER. But once he's admitted, you'll have to obey hospital visitor's policy."

He nodded silently and stepped into the curtained section. She closed it off behind him. He looked at Mark and felt his stomache debate how much it liked what he'd had for breakfast. On the one hand, he's seen others just as bad off in his junkie days. On the other, this was _Mark_. This wasn't some random fucked-up crackhead. This was his best friend.

His face was one massive bruise. His nose was broken and swollen. His right hand was completely wrapped, up to the elbow. His neck had raw red marks, not quite burns but not bruises, and his left shoulder was a putrid greenish-yellow. Through the thin hospital sheet, Roger could see Mark's right thigh was wrapped and a bit of blood had seeped through the bandaging. His right foot was in similar condition, but with a little less blood.

Unlike Mimi, Mark's pain was evident on his sleeping face. Every few moments he'd let out a whimper or wince. If he could have been sure it wouldn't cause more pain, Roger would have taken Mark's hand. As it was, he just collapsed in the chair beside the -- not even a bed, really, a cot.

"Jesus Christ, Mark." He breathed. To his surprise, pale blue eyes faded open.

"You trying to convert me?" Mark asked. Roger just blinked at him. Mark gave the smallest little smile, shifted a bit, then gasped in pain and promptly passed out agian.

Roger jumped up, knocking his chair over, and flung open the curtain. He grabbed a passing nurse by the arm and began babbling to her. "He woke up! Did he wake up earlier? But then he passed back out and it was so sudden and I don't know what to do and will he be okay and my God that's Mark, for Christ's sake (even though he's Jewish) --"

"Sir!" She interrupted. "Please. My shift just started, but if you'll give me a moment I can find a nurse or doctor who can help you. Which curtain is the patient in?"

"Um, this one." Roger pointed, not remembering the number.

"Okay. Just wait right there and I'll be right back." After a few nervous moments, an older woman came up to him.

"I'm Kathy Armstrong. You're here with Mark Cohen?"

"Right." He didn't elaborate the relationship: she didn't ask.

"All right, why don't we go in here for some privacy?" She gestured to the curtained area. He followed her in.

"What happened to him?" Roger again sat in the chair as Kathy checked Mark's chart, IV, and various instruments.

"To get the full story, we'll have to wait. He's on heavy narcs, so he'll wake up every now and then and spew some nonsense. I understand that's what worried you a moment ago?" He nodded. "It's perfectly normal. And we can make a pretty good guess about what happened by the condition he was brought here in." She paused, then made an abrupt switch. "Are you lovers?"

"No."

"Siblings?"

"Room-mates. Best friends . . . why? Where is this leading?"

"You may need to be tested for HIV."

If Roger had not been already sitting, he would have fallen over.

"Oh God." He whispered. "Please tell me he hasn't got it too."

"Test results are not back yet. But you need to prepare for that possibility." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know this is a lot all at once, but does he have a history of suicide attempts? The gentleman who brought him in was unsure, but Mr. Cohen was found in the shower, unconscious, beside a razor. The bandages on his right leg are from razor cuts."

"He . . . not that I know of . . . but he might have when, when he was younger."

"Okay. Thank you -- feel free to stay as long as you need. In cases like this the police are called, so they may wish to speak with you later. And with the other gentleman also."

"Th-thank you." He managed. Kathy gave his shoulder a squeeze and a pat.

"Try not to worry too much." She said.

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	4. Leave Your Conscience at the Tone

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**Chapter Four A/N**: Okay, so I didn't fully explain everything. But you should have some idea, and if not, then it'll all be spelled out soon. If I can bring myself to type it. Does anyone else find the idea of Drag-Queen!Roger really, really funny? Especially when using Cindy's name? I think they must have a history or something. Roger really doesn't like her. Another perspective switch: various phone conversations. Or answering machine messages, as the case may be. All dialogue. Funfun. :-:This:-: denotes actions/sound effects since I can't use asterisks.

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**Chapter Four: Leave Your Conscience at the Tone**

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ri--_

"It's Maureen, so talk to me!"

"Hey Mo."

"Collins! Hey, what's going on in the world of my favorite teacher?"

"There's been . . . well, I guess an incident is the word."

"Oh my god. What happened? Mimi's not . . . is she okay?"

"Mimi's fine. Roger's fine."

"What happened to Mark?

"We're not sure yet. He's still unconscious."

"Oh my god . . . " :-:clatter:-:

"Mo?"

:-:muffled talking, crying:-:

"Hello?"

"Joanne! What happened to Maureen?"

"She just fell on the floor, sobbing. What's wrong, Collins?"

"Mark's in the hospital."

"Okay."

Pause.

"He's still in the ER. They'll probably be admitting him tomorrow morning, if he remains stable. Um, Roger and I are with him now, because Mimi's visiting hours are over. I can call you guys tomorrow with the room number."

"Okay."

"Are you all right?"

Pause.

"How could -- why Mark?"

"I don't know."

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_"Speak!" BEEP._

"Mark! Where the fuck are you? Your shift started an hour ago -- these drinks won't pour themselves, you know! I'm not paying you to stay home, you know! Hey, you little fucker, last night brought me in some serious cash. You made some gentlemen very happy, and they're lookin' for more. If your sweet little Jewish ass isn't down here in ten minutes I'll fuck you up myse --" BEEP.

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_"Speak!" BEEP._

"Mark? It's Tony, down at Life. Um. Your friend didn't come back today, so I don't know if you're okay. Well. If everything's all right, I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow. Hope you're feeling better, hon. Ciao."

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_"You've reached the Cohen residence! I'm sorry, but we're either on the other line or unable to come to the phone right now. Leave your name and a number, and we will return your call. If this is Mark or Cindy, we love you!" BEEP._

"Hi, Mrs. Cohen? This is Roger Davis. Mark's room-mate? I was just calling to let you know that there was -- Mark's in the hospital. You can call the loft, but no one'll be home -- try 607-7554, the cell phone of Joanne Jefferson. If I'm not with her, she can get you in contact with me. I'm. I'm sorry."

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_"Speak!" BEEP._

"Hey kids. How's life? Allison and I are heading back to Alphabet City for Thanksgiving this year. I'm stopping by the loft the day before. Can't wait for you guys to meet the kid -- Angel Evita. She's even got Angel's eyes. You're gonna love her. Get word to Collins!"

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_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_Ring ring ring._

_"You've reached Joanne's cell phone. If this is a business call, please press one. Personal, press two. I'll get back to you soon." BEEP._

"I don't know you, but Roger Davis gave me your number. I'm looking for Mark -- I'm his mother. What happened? God, please call me back . . . "

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	5. Soul of a Young Man

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**Chapter Five A/N**: This chapter came out first person, Mark -- different than I had intended. Because of that, I had a bunch of trouble with it, but parts of it I liked too much to give up on. A revelation I had in the shower kept it going. And sorry for the delay. High school and hurricanes have kept me pretty busy. Also, while editing, I realized that I started repeating myself. I realized that I started repeating myself. I (heart) edits and betas.

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**Chapter Five: Soul of a Young Man**

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It's . . . wow. The light is fucking bright. God.

I try to lift my hand, cover my eyes, but that hurts. I blink, squint, try to see with the glare and no glasses. It's . . . a needle? a sticker? a really big bug?

Ah. An IV and an Ace bandage. I experimentally bend my hand, then my arm -- ouch. Okay, Cohen, keep the hand and arm straight. But using a perfectly straight arm to block the light makes me look like Hitler, so I give up.

Okay. So where am I?

My left arm is unencumbered, so I reach around to see if I can locate my glasses. Bed -- armrest? no, bars -- table -- lamp -- success! Glasses.

Now considerably less blind, I take a look at the room.

Hospital. No doubt. Beeping machines, glaring white lights, an IV for fuck's sake . . . I must be on some drugs. My mind's not all here.

Close on Mark, stupidly trying to figure out he's in a hospital bed.

And there's . . . a window, I think. Maybe a TV? It's not the outside, it's Collins and Roger and a policeman. Window to a hallway.

If I try really hard, I can hear what they're saying.

" . . . aware, does he have a history of suicide attempts?" That's the policeman.

"Not that I can remember." Collins sounds tired. He should get some sleep. Those kids he teaches don't ever give him a break.

"Scars on his arms?" Police again.

"None from cutting." Roger. He sounds . . . weird. Higher-pitched? I'm looking at him, and there's something strange, not quite right. Can't quite place it though. . . . sparkles?

"And do you have any idea where this might have happened?"

Collins looks to Roger, who looks uncomfortable. "He got a new job a while ago. Some bar -- I don't know the name. I could check through his papers, see if there's a paycheck he hasn't cashed yet."

The policeman: "We'll be getting back in touch when he wakes up."

They nod, and the policeman moves off. Everything's muzzy, hazy still. I have the feeling that I know what they've been talking about, if I could just focus.

"God," That's Roger talking. Quieter, now. My eyes are closed -- I'm trying to focus. What's going on here? "That was my razor. Fuck, Collins, I probably killed him."

Razor. Razor. Roger's razor. I remember Roger's razor. What about Roger's razor?

_I'm in the shower. I don't feel good, have been throwing up all morning. Knock Roger's razor on the floor -- fuck. Lean over to pick it up -- God, it hurts! Stand up, wincing, shouldn't have bent over . . . but I stand up too quick. Start to black out, feel myself falling, feel the razor slide along my leg as I drop it again . . ._

I'm throwing up again, turned on my side. But there's a bedpan there, someone's rubbing my back, saying "It's okay, it's okay."

"It's not okay!" I want to scream. Fuck it all, I remember, I wish I didn't! "It's not okay! How can it be okay?"

"Mark?" It's Roger. He sounds worried. Fuck, I don't want him here. Can't face him. "Mark!"

My stomache's emtpy. The male nurse holding the bedpan frowns over my head and asks me something as he takes the pan away. I can't hear him, try to ask "What?" but it comes out as a whisper. He frowns and repeats the question. I still can't understand. He sighs, exasperated.

"Your sister's trying to get in here." What's Cindy doing here? The nurse keeps talking. "Or brother, I guess. The drag queen."

Roger's weird outfit makes a bit more sense. Only family in the ER.

"Don't want to see him." I manage to get out. The nurse nods, and I don't roll back over. Staying this way, I can't see out that little window to the hallway. Can't face him.

"I'm sorry, but he doesn't want any visitors right now." I hear the nurse tell Roger and pull a curtain over the window. He leaves the room and I can't hear what else he says, but I hear Roger's outraged replies.

"Like FUCK he doesn't want visitors! Mark! Dammit, Mark, you can't shut us out like this! Go ahead and call security, you little fuck, but I'm going in there -- Mark! Don't do this, Mark, we need to be here for you!"

His voice is fading. I think security came and dragged him off. I can tell I'm crying, take my glasses off and put them back on the table.

Every time I move, something hurts, and I wonder how I could have forgotten. I want to forget again.

In what feels like the next moment, I'm waking up. No dreams -- I rarely ever dream, and never when I'm stressed or exhausted. I feel better than earlier, physically at least. More collected. Less groggy.

I haven't forgotten, but I'm not hysterical. I'm dealing with this how I normally would, how I deal with life.

I shut it off. I detach. I think this might be a time where we can all agree that detachment is just fine.

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"Mr. Cohen?" It's a female nurse. One I haven't seen before. Nametag says 'Kathy.' "Mr. Cohen, your mother called. Do you feel up to talking to her?"

"Sure."

She nods and hands me the receiver from a phone I hadn't noticed on the bedtable, then leaves.

"Mom?"

"Mark? Are you okay? What happened?" She sounds rough.

"I'm . . . "

"I'm sorry, Markie, obviously you're not okay. Oh, God, Mark." She's crying. "I couldn't get in touch with anyone! I've been calling every hospital . . . Roger left a message, but the cell number he gave me -- no one called back . . . I don't even know what happened . . . "

"It's okay, Mom. It's nothing life-threatening. I'm being discharged this afternoon."

"Do you have someone to pick you up?"

"I was thinking of calling Cindy, asking her to get me." I don't want Mom to see me in a hospital bed. Brings back too many memories.

"She's over here, I can send her with the car."

"Thanks. I love you."

"Markie," she hesitates. "What happened?"

I pause. I should tell her.

"I'll see you later. I'm coming home tonight."

"We can talk then?"

Sure, Mom. "Goodbye."

"I love you, baby."

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I've been in this damn hospital too long. One day, one night unconscious -- broken by hysterics and Roger being thrown out. One day spent in tests and interviews with policemen, doctors, and a psychiatrist. I've been taken off the IV and ordered to attend at least one group therapy at the hospital and five individual sessions with a psychiatrist or psychologist of my choice.

Fine. I can deal with that, if I must.

I can't deal with much else, yet. I called Cindy's cell, and she told me not to worry about sending her into the city. I know she hates the city. She's picking me up in two hours. The real Cindy, not Roger in some Salvation Army prom dress. It occurs to me that he might get in legal trouble when the hospital realizes he bullshitted his way in here in the first place. It doesn't occur to me to do anything about it.

She'll take me by the loft. With any luck, no one will be there. No one should be there. Mimi's still here, dealing with her own medical crisis. Roger's visiting Mimi. Collins, the same. Maureen and Joanne have no reason to be at the loft. Benny --

Benny I actually wouldn't mind running into. Benny never expected me to be anything more than what I am. But Benny's in California. Fun in the sun and the sand and the surf.

I'm going to Scarsdale. I'll stay there as long as I can stand it, then I'm using my stash and I'm getting the hell out of here.

Two hours until I leave. Unfortunately, one hour of group therapy comes first.

"My name is Mark . . . "

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	6. Truths That He Learned

**Chapter Six A/N**: Dedicated to MistressFlame, The Phantom, Kelby, and the-fraulein. You guys all rock my socks. I am not worthy . . .

To clarify time-wise (and so I can keep track), #6 begins the morning of November 17th, the day after Collins found Mark and took him to the hospital. Mark woke up and Roger was removed by security late the night of the 16th/early the next morning. Mimi's been sleeping as peacefully as possible the entire time. And the very end of 5, Mark gets discharged around 6 in the evening of the 17th. So this starts off a bit before the end of chapter five, and time goes wonky a bit, but hopefully it's not too confusing (although it probably is, because I just confused the crap out of myself reading that bit).

P.O.V.: Third person omniscient.

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**Chapter Six: Truths That He Learned**

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Mimi quietly opened her eyes, blinking. She'd been in this hospital room for a week and had yet to get used to the florescent lights that hurt her eyes so. She peered at the figure in the chair beside her, trying to place what was odd.

"Rog?" She asked quietly. The figure raised its head and sighed.

"He's not here, Meems."

"Collins. Sorry. Can't really see you that well." She smiled faintly at him.

"Is it -- ?" He hesitated and she jumped in.

"No! It's just these bright lights. Hard to adjust when I've just woken up. Where's Roger?"

Collins frowned. "At the loft, I suppose. I hope. Can't think of anyplace else he'd be."

"Why isn't he here?" She was a little scared. Was he getting sick and not wanting to infect her? Was something wrong?

"He got kicked out of the hospital last night . . . "

"What?!" She struggled upright. "What the hell happened?"

"Lay back down, Meems." Collins leaned forward to push her gently backwards. As his face came into focus, Mimi saw the inarguable signs of one who'd had little sleep and much stress and caffeine in the past twenty four hours. "There's been an incident."

"Thomas Collins. That sentence has all the markings of an avoidance answer that you have overused. If you don't tell me exactly what happened to make you look so awful and to get Roger kicked out of the hospital, I will hop right out of bed and kick your sorry ass, doctor's orders not-withstanding." She glared at him in a perfect imitation of his mother. He blinked at her, then grinned, and finally laughed. As the laughs melded into sobs, she softened her look. "C'mere."

He scootched his chair closer and laid his head down on her mattress. She rubbed his back and ran her fingers through his hair, making "shh" noises and talking softly about anything calming she could think of. When he finally pulled himself together, he sat back up.

"Now then." She clasped her hands. "Feel up to telling me what's been going on?"

"Like I said, there's been an -- "

"Incident?" She interrupted. "Tell me, Collins, how many people have you said that to in the past, oh, day or so?"

"Honestly?" He paused. "Roger, Tony, Joanne, Maureen, Mrs. Cohen, Cindy, and the lady on the first floor who let EMS in the building. And now you."

"Okay. So why don't you tell me what really happened?" Mimi didn't bother asking who had gotten in the way of this "incident." If Cohens had been informed, it had something to do with Mark.

"Mark was." Collins stopped, mentally steeled himself to say it for the first time, and went on. "He was attacked -- raped and beaten -- two nights ago. We think he tried to kill himself as well -- I found him in the shower beside a razor. I don't know what really happened -- he was unconscious until pretty late last night, and he doesn't want to see anyone. Roger was dragged out by security when he tried to go in anyway."

Mimi just sat there, looking at him, and for a moment he wondered if she had heard him at all. Her face gave no clue as to what she was thinking. For a full minute, they just sat, listening to the whir of machines and the chatter of people in the hallway.

"Wh . . . " She started to say, then shook her head and paused. She closed her eyes and tried again. "Why doesn't he want to see us?"

"Shame, maybe?" Collins sighed. "I have no idea. I always thought I could guess what he was thinking, but I'm completely lost here."

"Has anything like this ever happened to you?" She demanded sharply. He looked surprised, and more than a bit horrified.

"God, no!"

"Then no wonder you're feeling lost." She took a deep breath. "Get a doctor in here, will you? They said yesterday I can go home soon. If 'soon' doesn't mean today, I think I might go crazy."

"Can do." Collins stood and kissed her forehead, heading for the door.

"Coll?"

"Meems?" He glanced back, standing framed in the doorway.

"Do you think Angel . . . ?" Mimi let it trail off, unsure how to articulate what she meant. He understood anyway.

"Yeah. She would have. So we're just going to have to do the best we can without her."

Mimi nodded, and Collins went to the nearest nurse's station.

-------

One glance at the way the door wasn't quite closed correctly, and Mark knew that Roger was home. He froze.

"Fuck," he swore quietly and without much emotion. He should have realized that 'kicked out of the hospital' meant 'no visiting Mimi either.'

"What's wrong?" Cindy was crowding him again. He knew it was honest worry and concern for her baby brother, but it was suffocating nonetheless. Suffocating and strange. She was becoming so much like their mother . . . so different from her teenage years . . .

"Just . . . wait out here, okay? Roger's home. I want to deal with him on my own." He glanced at her. She paused, then nodded reluctantly.

"You have fifteen minutes, then if I don't hear talking I'm busting in with a SWAT team." She smiled weakly and sat on the floor beside the door. He tried to smile back. He didn't think it worked.

-------

The loft was trashed. Wholesale destruction like this hadn't been tolerated since Mimi moved in, and Mark half-expected to hear April and Leigh giggling at the mess they'd made while high. He half-expected Maureen to come whirling out of the bathroom, only partly dressed and singing loudly. He half-expected to open his bedroom door to find Collins and Angel making out whole-heartedly on his bed, sheepishly admitting they'd locked themselves out again once they realized they weren't alone. He more than half-expected to find Roger in a heroin-induced stupor, empty needles and empty plastic bags spread around him.

The sound of Roger starting a shower disproved his last expectation.

Mark banished the unwanted ghosts and crept into his room, closing the door silently. He threw some clothes in a bag. He pulled his 'stash' -- almost $1000 in cash -- from the coffee can that also housed pens, pencils, and scraps of paper that were semi-important. He restlessly moved about his room, making sure he had all he wanted while he waited for Roger to get out of the bathroom.

After a twenty-minute shower, the water cut off. Mark froze, not wanting to make any noise that would alert Roger to his presence. He didn't know why he was so paranoid about seeing Roger face-to-face. But the mere thought of it made his stomach clench in fear.

Muffled swearing and a few thumps, then the sound of Roger walking back into his bedroom. Mark leaned against the wall the two bedrooms shared, and heard the Fender being put in tune. He waited a minute, then slipped into the bathroom to take what he needed. Toothbrush, deodorant, glasses case. He started for a razor, then shuddered violently and almost threw up. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door, taking one last glance around.

It was sitting on the cardboard boxes that served as a coffee table.

He couldn't believe he'd forgotten it.

He slowly moved to stand behind the sofa, wondering why his camera suddenly seemed so menacing. Why the black lens seemed to be glaring at him, like a blind eye blaming him for its problems. Why it was set apart from the rest of the clutter, as if it radiated evil.

Why the Fender was no longer being played.

Mark shot a look at Roger's room, and realized that he'd only assumed the other man had shut his door. The bathroom was out of sight, but where he stood by the sofa he had a clear view of Roger's bed.

And Roger, sitting on the bed, had a clear view of him.

-------

Roger had slammed home in a rage. The nerve of Mark! _All that I've done for him, and in repayment I get shut out._ When Roger realized that Mimi was in the same hospital and he wouldn't be seeing her for awhile either, he was halfway home. He screamed and kicked the nearest building until someone four stories up threw a shoe at him.

He—very briefly—considered hocking the shoe for drug-money before hurling it back up at the fourth story. It rose ten feet in the air then curved majestically back and hit him on the head.

He stared at the shoe, now lying on the sidewalk. "This is life." He finally proclaimed to it. "This is life, and it is shit. It's getting sick, getting raped, getting beat up, getting used, and dying."

It wasn't precisely a new revelation, but he somehow felt better for saying it aloud. He carried the shoe back to the loft and set it on the fire escape before trying to clean up.

He cleaned sporadically and ineffectually. He finally gave up and fell asleep on the sofa, having managed to do nothing more than straighten up Mark's room and clear a space around the camera.

When he woke, it was nearing night. He stumbled into the shower to wake up a bit before going back to fiddling with his guitar. When he saw someone moving in the loft, at first he thought it was a burglar. Once that ridiculous idea was discarded, he leaned forward and saw Mark.

-------

There was an awkward silence that lasted a full minute, as Roger took in how much worse Mark looked out of the hospital. He'd never thought pale sheets and florescent lights would flatter someone's complexion, but the light at the loft made Mark's bruises seem darker and larger, and the bandages that were visible stood out starkly.

It was Mark who finally broke the silence. "Is that a shoe on the fire escape?"

Cindy chose that moment to bang the door open, eyes blazing with righteous impatience. "Mark Cohen, it has been almost half an hour and if you don't get your scrawny Jewish ass --"

Mark flinched. Roger froze. Cindy cut herself off, realizing that something had corrupted the childishly teasing phrase she'd used for years. A moment of silence passed before she gently touched his shoulder.

"Mom's waiting, Markie." She said softly. He nodded and walked out the door empty-handed. Cindy hefted his bag of clothes and stared indefinably at Roger for a moment.

"I'm taking him home." She whispered quickly, as though afraid to talk to him too long. "I'm not going to pretend that we can take care of him better, but Scarsdale isn't here, and here is where it happened. You know?"

"Cin --" He started, but she took a step backwards and he stopped.

"Call in a couple days. If you don't, I'll make him call you. Promise." With a wave she was out the door and gone.

It wasn't until she left that Roger realized the camera was still on the coffee table.

-------


End file.
